


the best of what we've done (is yet to come)

by effie214



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 09:29:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effie214/pseuds/effie214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what dreams should always be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best of what we've done (is yet to come)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Real Person Ficathon on LJ. Prompt: five years from now. Title and summary from the Ryan Star song "Losing Your Memory."

He walks down the familiar street lined with trees and a few cars and a sense of purpose in his life. He glances toward the buds trying to explode into colors above him like fireworks and thinks back to everything he's marked by the evolution of the foliage.

The trees were full and lush, like his future, when he first saw them when they'd decided to throw caution to the wind and move to New York; the most vibrant, welcoming green. The tree in front of the steps he and Arthur had struggled to ascend whilst carrying a couch laughed in the warm wind, its vivaciousness equal to Matt's own giddiness that they were finally doing this.

They'd made it to the second floor living room, dropped the couch on the floor in exertion and exhaustion and then their bodies on top of it when she'd emerged from the kitchen holding a stack of his records. "Should I even ask why these were with the pots and pans?"

He’d pretended to ponder the notion and then shook his head. Her laugh echoed off the ceiling with nothing else in the room to catch it, and it felt like he's watching fireflies dance, jubilant and free.

They’d eaten take away on the floor that night, sitting across from each other cross legged, knees touching as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

He looks both ways before crossing against the light, and it never ceases to amaze him just how appropriate and applicable that is to their situation. He'd advanced on red even after Moffat and his head told him no, but he just couldn't ignore the quickened thumping of his heart, whispering _do it, do_ _it, do it_ in perfect measure. 

So he did.

So _they_ did.

He continues down the sidewalk, smells from the TriBeCa wafting tantalizingly around him.  The spanikopita from Athenos smells particularly good today, and his smile widens as it always does when he passes beneath the blue awning the color of the Mediterranean.  They'd ordered in from the restaurant on a Tuesday night, and just as they were settling in after clearing their plates to argue over just how tiresome cops and forensics shows were when Karen had bolted to her feet and made a mad dash to the bathroom.

She'd finished throwing up by the time he got to her, handing her a wet washcloth with so much concern that the hair on the back of his neck stood at rapt attention.  She'd sighed deeply, rolling back to rest on her heels.

It was the look of inevitability on her face that gave her away, even if it flashed within a nanosecond.  There was no surprise there, no musings as to whether or not it was dinner or a bug that upset her stomach, and'd he kneeled next to her, taking her hands in his. "Kaz, what is it?"

She'd sighed resolutely, and he had answered his own question. "This isn't the first time you've been sick."

She'd pushed a strand of hair back over her shoulder and taking a deep breath, reached behind him toward the cabinet.

Then it was he who felt sick, who went white as a ghost and began to see stars other than the ones she'd hung in his sky so long ago.  She'd held out the pink box to him, and he'd looked at it, then back at her, then the box and then her again before asking in a hoarse whisper, "Have you already taken one?"

She'd shaken her head.  "I need you here with me when I do this."

He'd reached over and gathers her in his arms, kissing her hair.  "There's no place I'd rather be." 

Those three minutes were the longest, most excruciating agony he'd ever experienced.

And then... __

 _worry panic jubilation disbelief mental note: call agent and tell him to book auditions for_ everything _because kids are expensive should we go out now and get diapers or can that wait oh god this means her dad’s going to know I’ve had sex with his daughter if this baby is a girl she’s not dating until she’s 30 if it’s a boy maybe he’ll be a footballer not that a girl couldn’t be a footballer I wonder if they sell jerseys in baby sizes more worry more panic oh here come the stars across my eyes again_

Then they’re both enveloped in each other’s arms, and he'd whispered _I love you_ a thousand times against her lips before repeating the gesture on her stomach, her fingers threading through his hair, pushing it into a hairstyle as unruly and untamed as his love for her.

She'd begun the nesting phase months later, and the constant rearrangement and organizing was frustrating the hell out of him.  But he'd kept his mouth shut -- he'd learned that lesson very early on -- and continued thumbing through the book of names she'd bought.  He'd been crushed when she'd refused to name their daughter Amelia or Sarah Jane (he hadn't dared suggest "Rose"), and at this rate, she was going to be "Baby Girl Smith" for the rest of her life.

He'd glanced up at Karen then, folding onesies and frilly dresses for the fourth time, and his smile read _home isn’t where the heart is, it’s where_ you _are._

Baby Girl Smith had been born on Thanksgiving Day, two weeks early, and he'd panicked, running around the flat looking for house keys that were in the pocket of the trousers he was wearing and putting two different trainers on, while a bemused  Karen stood at the doorway, resting her hospital bag against her stomach.

Her scream of pain as a contraction rolled through her broke him from his psychosis, and he ran to her, one foot out of his mismatched footwear.  They'd hailed a cab, and he'd blanked when the driver asked about their destination.

Karen had taken his hand in hers and calmly replied, "Beth Israel."

He'd been in awe of her before, but as he heard the first cries of his daughter – _their_ daughter -- Karen was an honest to god superhero and he'd wondered how in the hell he got so lucky.

She'd held the baby for a few minutes, and then handed her to Matt.

He'd looked down and saw the best thing they'd ever do together.

They'd Skyped with both sets of new grandparents the next day, and it was Karen who introduced Charlotte Amelia to them, looking up at him with a grin.  When he'd looked back at her in disbelief, she'd simply said, "That's when our lives began. Without Amy, there wouldn't be us. And there wouldn't be her," glancing lovingly at the baby.

He'd given her a gentle kiss and then as Karen returned to four very giddy grandparents, he'd glanced at the clock. 4:54 PM was the time forever started.

As he walks, he hears church bells ringing in the distance. The weight on his left hand has never felt foreign. Instead, it is a multitude of meaning: it’s the thing that calls him home; it’s a reminder of gold and riches at the end of a sometimes very tough road. It is a redefinition of what’s important; of where he’s supposed to be.

It had been a small wedding in Inverness. Charlotte had sat on Caitlin’s lap and babbled through the entire ceremony as though they were her vows to say as well. He’d slipped that ring on Karen's finger, voice low as he said words meant only for her – though he did improvise a bit, forgoing “until death do us part” in favor of “until the end of time.”

He bounds up the steps to their brownstone, located just three blocks from the first flat they’d bought when they were other people – he jokes that they’ve not changed but instead regenerated, and loves the eyeroll Karen gives him every time he does it – and the scraping sound of the key in the lock is drowned out by the high-pitched squeal of a nearly five-year-old little girl as she bounded from the kitchen in the back to meet him at the door.

He swoops her up as fluidly as running water and she gives him a sticky kiss on the cheek to welcome him home.

And what a home it is.

fin


End file.
